"I've got two questions for you."
Lucy pointed to the edge of her mouth to let Mattie know she had a smudge of whipped cream on her lip.
"Go ahead. Ask away."
After a quick swipe of her napkin, Mattie asked, "Who's older—Eddie or Nick?"
"Eddie. By two minutes. And he never missed the chance to rub it in Nick's face."
She stared off into the distance for a brief moment, and added, "When Nick was born, the doctors were sure he wouldn't make it. He was much smaller. He didn't even cry when he came out. We had Father Iuzzi come and gave him Last Rights. We were terrified we would lose him. But, the good Lord had other plans for him."
She paused and made the Sign of the Cross.
"Still, it took Nicky a long time to catch up to his brother, size wise. The whole time, he adored Eddie. He'd follow him around everywhere."
She raised her eyebrow and continued, "But Eddie always resented him. Maybe because Nicky got all the attention when they were babies."
She held up her finger. "But, still, that is no excuse for what he did. Nothing will ever excuse that. But now, thanks to you, maybe he can learn from his mistakes, huh? Mend his ways."
"Yep, he'll have plenty of time to reflect over the error of his ways," Mattie said, thinking of the lengthy sentence the judge had just handed down.
Looking wistful again, Lucy smiled and said, "But, my Nicky. He's a survivor."
Picturing Nick in his running shorts, shirtless, Mattie couldn't help but agree.
"He sure is."
Just as Mattie was about to ask her next question, Lucy looked at her over the rim of her espresso cup and asked one instead.
"So tell me, what makes you think you deserve him?"
Hanging her head, she replied, "I'm not sure I do."
Lucy took a long look at Mattie. "And why's that?"
"He's everything I'm not. He deserves someone as patient and kind and selfless as he is."
His mother shook her head and said, "I think he deserves—well, I think we all deserve someone who's going to rattle our cage and drive us crazy every once in a while. Couples need to push each other to look at life differently so they can grow, not just together, but as individuals, too. Take Lorenzo and me. We go at two completely different speeds. He's always rushing this way and that. Me? I like to take my time. Yet, we complement each other beautifully. Sometimes, he drives me absolutely nuts, and I'm sure I drive him completely bonkers, but still, we love each other with all our hearts."
Mattie wasn't sure if it was the wine or the liqueur from the most excellent tiramisu, but Mattie felt emboldened enough to ask, "Mrs. DeRosa, are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Lucy smiled warmly and asked, "What was your second question, dear?"
* * *
Mattie spent much of the next day resting and hydrating, trying not to dwell on the fact that she would be running twenty-six point two miles the following morning. Still very much hoping to hear from Nick, she couldn't help checking her phone for messages every fifteen minutes despite having the ringer turned all the way up.
When the only phone call she got was from Tom who stopped by to re-wrap her fingers for her on his way home from work, she went to bed that night resigned to going it alone and, no matter the outcome, putting the race and all that led up to it behind her.
The next morning, she woke up well-rested and ready to go. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the high temperature was not expected to top sixty degrees. Perfect running weather.
She took her time putting on her gear—shorts and a tank top covered by a long-sleeved shirt, both emblazoned with Team Plate Spinner.
"Dress in layers," Nick's voice echoed though her mind. "That way, you can just peel 'em off as you warm up."
She clipped a belt with a small pouch on the back for carrying keys, gels, and bars around her waist. Lastly, she pinned her bib on and headed out the door.
Twenty minutes later, she found herself strangely at peace in the middle of the festive chaos welling up in her starting gate.
It was such a beautiful day, and she had no intention of rushing through the event. Unsure of what lay before her afterwards, she just wanted to finish, no matter how long it took. While she had declared her love for Nick to Lucy, she did not reciprocate on his behalf.
As it was, her heart was all sorts of empty.
An air horn blast sliced through the air, and the runners burst forward. Mattie found her stride early on and just kept with it through most of the relatively flat course. The twenty-mile training run she had completed a few weeks back wasn't anywhere near as difficult as she expected, so her hopes were high that she would be able to complete the marathon in a relatively decent time.
After passing the first few water stations, she grabbed a cup at four miles from a nice boy wearing a Knollwood Knights T-shirt, a detail that didn't register in her brain until she hit the next water station at mile eight.
Another Knollwood Knight, but this one was talking on his cell phone.
Huh. Must be some kind of service project.
By mile twelve, the soft cast on her hand started to itch. By mile fourteen, she was ready to rip it off. By mile seventeen, she did, revealing her three taped fingers. The relief was exquisite.
* * *
Nick paced back and forth near the finish line, trying to hear what Drew Bates, his team captain stationed at mile eighteen, was saying.
"Sorry, coach. I didn't see her."
"She should've passed by there at least twenty minutes ago," he shouted over the din of excited spectators. Then, after nodding, he added, "OK, check with Pete for me, would ya, and then call me back."
"Everything OK?" Claudia asked.
"Naw, the guys lost her after mile sixteen. Drew's gonna check with Pete at nineteen."
He ran his hands over his face. "This waiting is killing me."
Claudia gave his arm a squeeze. "Everything's gonna be fine. She'll turn up. The runners are really starting to thin out as they come up the straightaway."
"I just hope nothing bad happened. Maybe her hand got to be too much?" he shot her an anxious look.
Claudia laughed. "Relax. She's not gonna let a couple of broken fingers stop her now."
But Nick couldn't. Staring down the gaping expanse of the straightaway stretching out before them, he said, "I've got John, one of my guys from the shelter, waiting at twenty-one. I figure that's when she's gonna need a buddy to keep her going."
"Can he just jump on the course like that?"
"I registered him. He's got a number. He'll just look like he's getting back on the course from a water stop or bathroom break."
Nick checked his stopwatch for the hundredth time when his phone rang.
"Yeah?" he barked into the phone.
Sticking his finger in his other ear so he could hear, he listened for a minute then shouted, "All right. Great."
When he hung up, he shot both arms in the air. "She just started mile twenty."
He quickly dialed John's number. "Get ready, man. She's coming."
* * *
Jogging at a steady pace through Chicago's ethnic neighborhoods, Mattie tried to be in the moment, notice her surroundings, and enjoy the experience. She was in the zone, not thinking about her past, present or future. The fwap-fwap of hundreds of shoes hitting the pavement lulled her into a meditative state.
After grabbing more water at mile twenty from another Knollwood Knight, she had just turned east on 33rd street when she heard footsteps dash up next to her.
"Hey, Plate Spinner," the man panted.
Surprised, Mattie turned her head to see the guy from the shelter she had met on the path a couple of weeks back. "John. Hi."
After a few more paces, she exclaimed, "How'd you find me?"
He looked straight ahead and smiled. "Would've found you sooner if you kept your cast on."
"What?"
He didn't respond.
Still, she was happy to have a
companion, even though she doubted her ability to carry on much of a conversation.
They curved south onto State Street where the crowds of spectators were beginning to thicken. She was still feeling good. But by the time they curved left and started north on Michigan Avenue, the familiar finish line panic started bubbling up inside of her.
"How much farther?" she asked John. "I gotta see the finish line."
"About two and a half miles, I think," he panted next to her. "You can do it."
"Ok, ok." She wiped her brow and focused on the road in front of her. After what seemed like an hour, they passed the twenty-four mile marker.
Just put one foot in front of the other. You can do this. You can do this.
When she saw the twenty-five mile marker, all her happy self-talk abandoned her.
"I can't do this," she gasped, her voice strained with anxiety.
"Sure you can," John laughed, "if you tell yourself you can't, you won't."
He was channeling Nick.
They turned east onto Roosevelt Road. This slope in the road had tried to claim her before. She worked hard to remember that she had already conquered it.
Chugging along, Mattie asked, "Hey. Did you give Nick my message?"
John didn't answer until they took a left on Columbus Drive. The finish line was several yards ahead of them.
"What do you think?"
Mattie could no longer feel her feet, but her heart leapt.
Through her sunglasses, she peered ahead, scanning the mass of people lining each side the course, all yelling and cheering. But she didn't see him.
"Where?" she gasped.
"There," John pointed to an area just beyond the finish line that was clear save for a few race officials.
And Nick.
He was standing there, in his coach clothes, complete with a stopwatch, shaking his head back and forth. If it weren't for the grin on his face, she would've thought he was still angry with her.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, "You call that a kick? Have I taught you nothing, Mathilde Jean?"
She let out a laugh. She squeezed John's hand and, summoning the last ounce of energy she had in her, she rushed to the finish line. After she crossed it, she put her hands on her hips and walked towards him.
"Seriously?" she panted. "How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?"
Handing her an open water bottle, he walked alongside her and asked, "OK, how 'bout M.J.?"
She took a long swig of her water. "M.J. Ross? Nah, I don't think so."
"How about M.J. DeRosa?" He stopped and faced her, taking her hands in his.
Mattie gasped. She was still sweating, but somehow trembling at the same time. When she noticed several familiar faces come out of the crowd, she covered her mouth with her hand. Claudia and Tom, Lucy and Lorenzo, Dianne, and John, along with several guys from the shelter and several members of Nick's Knollwood Knights cross-country team, all stood nearby, smiling ear to ear.
With hundreds of spectators and runners looking on, and Charlie Clarke clicking his camera all around them, Nick knelt down before Mattie right there in the middle of Columbus Drive.
Looking up at her, he asked, "Mathilde Jean Ross, will you marry me?"
Blinking back the tears, Mattie took a deep breath and replied just loud enough for the hundreds of spectators to hear, "Yes, Nicoli Giovanni Francesco DeRosa, I will marry you."
Laughing, Nick stood, his own eyes watering. Gently taking the bandaged fingers of her left hand in his, he pulled a reset and resized diamond ring from his pocket that he had threaded with a red, white, and blue Olympic medal ribbon and placed it over her head.
The crowd burst into applause.
Before she could even catch her breath, he locked his mouth onto hers in a kiss.
Then he lifted her into his arms and posed for a picture that ran on the Gazette's front page the very next day under a headline Lester himself had readied weeks before: "Comeback Kid Wins Marathon Mattie."
* * * * *
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* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barb is a freelance writer, corporate minion, over-scheduled parent, and connoisseur of fine chocolate. A second-generation journalist, her work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune and its affiliates as well as Mom.Me. Three of her pieces were included in a Tribune Media e-book collection entitled, Love Notes: Stories of Love, Loss, and Coming Together (Agate, 2014). Having spent the whole of her thirties pregnant, she has five boys to show for it. Their exploits provided fodder for her column, The Plate Spinner Chronicles, a long-running feature in the Chicago Tribune, which snagged her a runner-up spot in an Erma Bombeck Humor Contest. A member of RWA's Windy City chapter, she still dreams of the day when her to-do list includes "Send NY Times book critic thank you note" and "Accept Godiva's request to be a taste-tester."
To learn more about Barbara Valentin, visit her online at: http://theplatespinnerchronicles.blogspot.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY BARBARA VALENTIN
Assignment: Romance novels
False Start
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed the Assignment: Romance series, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic read from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
MY EX-BOYFRIEND'S WEDDING
by
T. SUE VERSTEEG
* * * * *
CHAPTER ONE
Jemma Keith let the heavy box she'd lugged up the stairs slam to the floor with a loud thump. Flopping onto her couch, she nestled into the overstuffed cushions and took what comfort she could from her familiar surroundings. Dust clung to the things she'd left behind in the tiny apartment after being closed up for a few months.
She made the mistake of closing her eyes in the hopes of escaping to her happy place. You know, sprawled on a beach chair, palm trees rustling in the soft breeze, gentle ocean waves sweeping the sand, scantily clad Johnny Depp manning the margarita blender, Tom Hiddleston and Bradley Cooper, one on each side, fighting over who gets to put on her sunscreen.
Instead, she ended up replaying the morning's events just as clearly as when they'd happened. Curiosity had nagged her to follow her boyfriend, Dalton Blackwell, after he cancelled their lunch plans at the last minute, yet again. Common sense attempted to side with her stomach, pleading to drive through for a burger instead.
Curiosity won.
She kept her car at a safe distance, following from his office along the familiar route to the home of his secretary, Stacy.
Jemma parked a block away, feeling guilty as she walked toward the two-story Victorian she'd visited for many office parties. She brushed her finger along the silver striping of Dalton's car at the curb as she passed it. A beautiful afternoon, the late fall breeze briskly whipped the fallen leaves across the lawn as she walked up the front steps. The bright sun warmed the air of the Indian-Summer's day, making her tug at the collar of her heavy wool sweater.
This is ridiculous; he's only visiting her since she called in sick, just like he said.
But, curiosity prodded her across the porch to the front door. As she hovered a finger over the doorbell, fluttering curtains at an open window caught her attention. The garish, blood red fabric billowed inward, framing Stacy on her knees in the living room. Dalton stood in front of her, pants undone, his fingers tangled in her dirty blond hair, guiding her movement. Jemma sucked in a harsh gasp, fighting a myriad of emotions and one hell of a gag reflex.
Curiosity: one. Common Sense: zero.
"Jemma Rae Keith!" Her father's booming voice snapped her from her self-induced nightmare and back to the present task at hand.
"Yes, Daddy?"
"Am I to assume that you plan to lie there while I cart the rest of these boxes up three flights of stairs?"<
br />
Jemma flashed her dad a lopsided, half-hearted smile, as he walked through the door and joined her on the couch. Her father was a large man, with salt and pepper hair, brown eyes, an infamous bad temper, and a rumored connection with the Mob. Anyone with any sense would move heaven and earth to stay on the man's good side.
"Sorry, Daddy, I'm…" Jemma paused, tossed a frantic look around her box-infested apartment for any excuse, and flipped her hands in the air. "I've got nothing. I guess I just needed a break."
"Don't give that asshole one more second of your time. I tried to tell you from the beginning he was a waste of pretty much everything, including air." Michael Keith crossed his arms over his massive chest.
"That's probably part of the reason I convinced myself I loved him."
Jemma and her father exchanged accusatory glares before he scooped her into his embrace, a snort of derision punctuating his hug.
"There is undoubtedly more truth in that statement than I care to admit. However, I will take great pride in asking if you're glad I insisted on keeping your apartment after you moved in with the waste of skin," he said, his words a statement more than a question.
"Okay, you win on that one." Jemma dropped her head back against the couch, breaking from his grasp in an overstated act of defeat. The tears had stopped after the shock, but the longer she sat still, the closer they bubbled to the surface. Bounding to her feet, she added, "I'll try to listen, if there's ever a next time."
Her father broke out in a long belly laugh, drawing out until he gasped for breath. "I highly doubt it," he sputtered between gulps of air.
Jemma walked to the door, muttering, "I didn't say it would happen. I just said I'd try."
They spent the remainder of the afternoon carting boxes up to her apartment, ignoring the melody coming from Jemma's cell phone. Dalton had tried calling all afternoon, like he always did, evidently oblivious to what Jemma had witnessed. Getting her stuff out of his place was the only thing that'd kept her from interrupting them. Dalton never did fight fair, and this instance would, more than likely, be no different.
False Start Page 21
